


Not Only By Blood (but i'd give it for you)

by JensenAckles13



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also Sometimes, Angry Stiles Stilinski, Angst, Caring Derek Hale, Crazy Uncle Peter, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Derek Hale has a heart, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, More tags to be added, Not Canon Compliant, Not Peter and Stiles Though, Peter Hale Being an Asshole, Peter Hale Has A Heart, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Being an Asshole, Stiles Stilinski Being an Idiot, Stiles Stilinski Has A Heart, i guess?, kind of dark?, sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JensenAckles13/pseuds/JensenAckles13
Summary: So, Stiles and Peter have some weird psychic bond. That's a thing now. Because of magic. Because that's also a thing now, apparently.He feels like he should be more freaked out, but to be honest, he's not really all that surprised. I mean, werewolves were a thing. Why not magic?He's learned to roll with the punches, and if being magically linked to Peter Hale is what gets him justice for his father's murder, he's not going to argue. He's far, far too angry for that.And if he's going to get justice for his father's murder...well, there no problem in helping Peter get his, too.





	1. Don't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna say it straight off the bat- all of my knowledge on Teen Wolf is from fics I've read. I watched it off and on, but never really watched enough to get all that into it. Anything that's wrong, were just gonna roll with it. I wasn't exactly going for cannon compliant, but I do hope I get the characterization at least somewhat correct. Obviously that might change a bit, too, due to the nature of this fic, but I really do hope you enjoy it, in the end. 
> 
> And yes, I realize this first chapter is written strangely, but that is for a reason and it will not all be like that!
> 
> I do also see that the spacing is weird, but it won't let me fix it for this chapter. I'll try to fix it next one.
> 
> Please leave a review if you do! I love seeing your comments. 
> 
> Title of this comes from this Charles Dickens quote!  
> "Family not only need to consist of merely those whom we share blood, but also for those whom we'd give blood."

 

_ Darkness. _

 

_ Silence. _

 

_ Pain. _

 

_ Coursing through their veins like lava, burning, overtaking the ability to move, to breathe, to even think. _

_ Distantly they hear screaming.  _

_ It is their own.  _

 

_ Now that they know that, it’s like they can’t stop. _

 

_ Blessed, cool hands pressing against their cheeks, holding their head up. Lips on theirs, breath in their mouth, a quiet laugh; soft, melodic, entirely unsettling and wholly familiar. _

 

_ “Did you think you would win?”  _

 

_ The voice it belongs to does not match the laugh; there’s something colder, calculated and understated, something they would not know to listen for had they not heard it before.  _

 

_ “Don’t you see? You think you’re some clever little thing. Oh, darling, you could never win. It’s against my nature to lose. Perhaps you should have taken that into consideration.”  _

 

_ “We did,” a voice rasps, and it takes a moment to realize it is their own. “We will.”  _

 

_ The laugh sounds again, but this time, it’s pitying; they see it reflected in her eyes, almost human, but not enough to fool.  _

_ They were, after all, quite clever.  _

 

_ They knew it. _

_ So did she.  _

 

_ But she did not care.  _

 

_ “Oh, darling, you’re the only one left.” _

 

_ “No.”  _

 

_ Again, she laughs. They’re really starting to hate the sound of it, far too cheery to be anything but false.  _

 

_ “Oh, yes. Don’t you see?”  _

 

_ They squeeze their eyes shut, because no, they can’t see. Won’t. It will ruin them.  _

 

_ The hands on their  face grasp harder, sharp fingernails stabbing into the hollows of their cheeks, and the laughing starts again, but it’s different. Loud, long, sharp. Grating in their ears.  _

_   
_ _ The woman’s face is changing, turning into something sharper, more sinister. Her eyes widen, keep growing until they’re nothing more than large, empty black holes. Her head throws back and her mouth breaks wide open- moths fly out, surround her, surround them.  _

 

_ They can’t see her.  _

 

_ The chill in her voice is gone, replaced entirely with something darker, something joyous in its insanity, revelling in what it has done.  _

 

_ “You will see.” _

 

_ “You haven’t won.” Their voice is hoarse, and they can hardly breathe. Darkness is approaching, hovering on the edge of their vision. They can’t move, like something is pinning them down.  _

 

_ They’re hot, so hot, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…. _

 

_ They close their eyes, try to hide, try to run, but they can’t. They’re trapped, and she knows it.  _

 

_ “Open your eyes,” the voice chants, over and over again. “Look,” it says. “See!” The hands on their face get harsher, squeeze until they feel like their head might just cave in all together. It would be better, they think.  _

_ Then they would be dead. _

_ Wouldn’t have to suffer.  _

 

_ It won’t happen. She wouldn’t allow it. She was prepared, they were not. She knows that, too.  _

 

_ Goad her, they think, but even that is getting too difficult. Their mind is losing its grip, they barely hear her over the rushing of blood in their own ears.  _

_ But they have to try.  _

_ They can’t be alone. _

 

_ Trick her, they’re clever, they can, they can, they just have to try…. _

 

_ The hands release them, like she knows exactly what they’re thinking. Maybe she does.  _

 

_ The voice surrounds them, now, still chanting, and it wants them to see, but they can’t, they refuse.  _

 

_ “Open your eyes,” the voice whispers.  _

_   
_ _ And they do.  _

 

_ Everything is ash.  _

 

_ Smoldering around them, burning, the scent of charred flesh heavy in the air.  _

 

_ They see the bodies around them, blackened, no longer recognizable.  _

 

_ They scream again, scream and scream and scream, because there’s nothing else they can do.  _

 

_ She laughs as she walks away, the scent of lavender and aconite surrounding her like a cloud.  _

_ They don’t know how they smell it over the scent of death so heavy in the air that they can taste it, but they know they won’t ever forget it.  _

 

_ The sound of sirens is distant but getting closer; the darkness around their vision is getting heavier, as though someone has laid a blanket over their eyes.  _

 

_ They’re slipping and they know it.  _

 

_ They murmur to themself, incoherent to all but them, one last shot, one chance, just one.  _

 

_ They close their eyes.  _

 

_ Cruel smirk, dark eyes.  _

 

_ Don’t forget.  _

 

_ Pleasure and insanity.  _

 

_ Don’t forget.  _

 

_ Lavender and aconite.  _

 

_ Don’t forget.  _

 

_ They won’t, they know they won’t.  _

 

_ They’re too clever for that and now, now they have a reason.  _

 

_ They smile, wide and cruel, their lingering grasp on sanity all but gone, and let the darkness take them.  _

 

Stiles Stilinski opens his eyes, and sees. 

 

Miles away, Peter Hale does the same. 

  
  
  



	2. Clever Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone! I’m going to start to try getting a chapter up every weekend! Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked and I hope everyone enjoys!

It’s easy, getting into the Long-Term Care Ward at Beacon Hills Hospital.

Everyone thinks he’s there to see Melissa, and he doesn’t tell them otherwise; let them think what they will, it’s not his problem that they didn’t ask.

He stalls outside the door, unsure why he’s suddenly lost his conviction, but determination settles firmly in his gut and he pushes the door open and steps inside, letting it fall closed quietly behind him.

Peter Hale is sitting alone; Stiles knew that, though. He was prepared. Came in just after dinner, when Peter would have already been fed and bathed, sheets changed- no one would come in until it was time to put the man to bed.

He took the time to study the man, whose blank gaze remained aimed towards the window. It was like he hadn’t even heard anyone come in.  

Catatonia, the doctors had said. Could be due to the injuries he sustained during the fire, but was more likely on a psychological level. His mind protecting itself, they’d said.

Stiles didn’t believe it for a moment.

Oh, sure, maybe it had been true at first. But six years had gone by, and something told Stiles that Peter Hale was now very much awake, and very good at lying.

Stiles dragged a chair over, watching the flinch the man gave at the harsh sound of the metal legs of the chair against the tile. Barely there, unnoticeable by almost anyone. Almost. If you didn’t know what to look for.

See, you don’t look at the body. No, you look in the eyes. Werewolves had excellent control of their facilities, but even they can’t hide the emotion in their eyes. And Peter’s had flashed in discomfort, the sound too sharp for his sensitive ears. Sure, it could have been a trick of the light. That was probably why he hadn’t been caught sooner. But Stiles knew better than that.

He plopped down, let his gaze wander critically over the man.

Comatose my ass.

“So,” Stiles started conversationally. “What’s it feel like to have to watch your family burn alive?”

A twitch. Good, that was good. The man wouldn’t give up his ruse very easily, but Stiles was prepared for that, too.

“I bet it sucked, huh? Did you hear them scream? Beg? Cry? Did you see their bodies, black and burnt?”

Fingers curled tightly around the arms of the chair; a single drop of blood hit the ground, welling where Peter had dug his claws into the palms of his hands, hiding them from sight.

So he didn’t know that Stiles knew. Interesting.

Still, there was no outward reaction.

Not so good. Stiles really didn’t want to pull out the big guns, but he was ready to anyways if it got him what he wanted. And he knew it would.

He stood from his seat, moved closer and knelt in front of the supposed comatose man, fingers closing around the lighter in his pocket and dragging it upwards, ensuring it was hidden within his palm until his hand was mere inches from Peter’s face.

“How did it feel?” He flicked the lighter on.

The reaction was instantaneous, a snarl ripping free as Peter lunged, pinning him to the wall, a clawed hand wrapped around his throat, the other slamming his wrist into the wall, knocking the lighter free.

Stiles couldn’t breathe past the hand on his throat, but he couldn’t stop the victorious smirk that took over his face, gasping out a choked, “Gotcha!”

The look of anger morphed into one of confusion and for a split second they hovered there, staring, until Peter slowly released him and stepped back, letting Stiles slump to the ground.

Peter stared down at him, before a grudgingly impressed smile passed across his face, there and gone in an instant, anger still storming through his eyes but no longer murderous.

“Clever,” was all he said.

Stiles grinned and got to his feet.

“That’s me.” He held out a hand. “Stiles Stilinski.”

Peter stared down at his hand for a long while, as though considering whether or not he should shake Stiles’ hand, or use it to throw him out the window.

In the end, he did neither and simply settled in against the wall, regarding him calmly.

“I suppose I don’t need to introduce myself,” Peter murmured.

“No, you really don’t.”

“Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

“You know, I was hoping you could tell me that.”

At this, Peter raised a brow, made a “go on” gesture with his hand, so Stiles sighed and started from the beginning.

Six years ago, Peter Hale’s entire family had burned to death in a fire that was labelled accidental.   
Six years ago, Stiles’ father had been killed trying to get in and save them. Smoke inhalation. His lungs couldn’t handle it.                                                      
Or so they’d said.

See, Stiles had always been too smart for his own good, and his father’s death had been his breaking point; he’d lost his mother not two years earlier to a very long and painful disease that had eaten half her brain before it had killed her.

So, he’d researched.

Looked into the fire, the Hales; the officers involved in the investigation, the fire marshal who had labelled it an electrical fire.

He discovered bribes and half-assed investigations, just enough done to keep everyone off their backs.   
There had been no witnesses, and the fire had burned so fast that by the time anyone had gotten there, there was hardly anything left. But apparently no accelerants had been used.

He found crime scene photos. That had been the worst of it all.

He’d been told his father had died due to something completely out of his control, that no one did it, that it wasn’t something anyone could stop. That there was no one to blame.

But.

His dads body had been found fifty feet from the Hale house with a bullet through his skull.

That hadn’t been in the official records, but the pictures were damning.

No investigation had happened.

Then the dreams had started.

Small, at first. Inconsequential. Something he could easily pass off as something caused by his grief.

They kept getting worse.

Fire and laughing and purple flowers. But still nothing he could piece together.  

Until last night, of course.

Last night’s had escalated, and it had done so severely.

At this, Peter looks intrigued.

“Escalated how?” he asks.

“I was there.”

Peter scoffs. “No, child, no you were not.”

Stiles glares, yanks up his shirt and turns around.Peter is silent behind him, but moments later he feels cool fingertips glide  ever so gently along his back where the burn marks had shown up after the memory and he’d woken up screaming.

He’d assured Melissa it had been a dream, that’s all, and she’d hugged him and rocked him until the tears had stopped falling.

“You were saying?” He lets his shirt drop, turns back to Peter, endures the man’s intense, curious gaze.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think it would be you.”

“You gonna go into any more detail or…?”

Peter regards him calmly before saying,

“That wasn’t just incomprehensible garbage, you know. It was a spell. Specifically something that would bind me to someone worthy in the event that things went wrong- well, more so than they already had- so that they would be able to piece together my family’s murder.”

“You mean if you died.”

Peter wrinkles his nose a bit but nods. “Yes, I suppose so. The question, however, is why. Why you?”

Stiles snorts. “Rude.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I assure you, this has nothing to do with my personal feelings on who you are as a person, though waving a lighter around in my face has brought me to the conclusion that you are, in fact, quite an ass.”

“Mm hm. And what would that make you, then?”

Peter tipped his head forward in concession. “Fair point.”

“Okay, but yeah, why me? I’ve got nothing to do with you.”

“But that’s not entirely true, is it? Perhaps the spell latched onto you because you lost your father that night, as well.”

“No, that doesn’t make sense. Lots of people died that night. Not just, um, your family and my dad, but just in general. They say two people die per second worldwide. Why not latch onto any of them?”

“Well, that certainly does bring up some other questions-”

But Stiles isn’t listening, has barrelled on over him.

“Unless- maybe it’s because we have some, some sort of connection, right? You used the spell so that it would go to someone who would want justice for your family, who would want to find their murderer. Who’d have a reason to. Otherwise it wouldn’t work, and some random person out there would wake up with terrible nightmares and in pain but wouldn’t know what to do about it, because then they just seem crazy. So maybe it found me, because…,” He takes a deep breath. “Because our families were murdered by the same person.”

Peter regards him cooly, before a smile, slow and toothy, takes over his face.

“Clever little thing,” he murmurs. Stiles shudders at the words. “Well,” Peter continues. “We’ve certainly got our work cut out for us, don’t we?”

“How do you know I’m not just here for answers? I’m a curious guy, that’s what got me into this whole mess in the first place. What makes you think I’m going to decide to help you?”

Peter grins again. “Child, you already have.”


	3. Break Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I’m not very happy with how this chapter turned out but I really could not find a way to fix it.   
> So! If there’s anything you like or just plain hate about this chapter, let me know in the reviews!   
> I hope it’s not as terrible as my mind thinks it is!

When Stiles agrees to break Peter out of the hospital, he expects it to be more...difficult, as breaking someone out of a hospital filled with people should be. 

But lying is second nature to him at this point. As much as he loves Melissa, she’s been treating him with  kid gloves since his dad died. And though she probably suspects something, she’s not going to call him out on it, too afraid she’ll scare him away. 

He’s used this to his advantage multiple times, and though he kind of feels bad, he always tries to make up for it with healthy, home cooked meals on the nights she isn’t working. Sometimes on the nights she is, too, so she’ll know Scott is at least being fed properly. God knows Scott would eat tater tots and hot dogs all night if he could and that’s not good for  _ anyone _ , werewolf metabolism be damned. 

So, point. It’s not hard. At least, not as hard as it should be. 

No one really pays him any mind anyways, so getting in and to Peter again is simple enough. He just comes back at the same time the next night, a backpack slung over his shoulder. When a nurse shoots him a questioning look, he just says he’s bringing Melissa her lunch on his way home from school, and wiggles the brown paper bag he’s holding to send the point home. 

“Can’t go wrong with peanut butter and jelly,” he says with a grin and the nurse’s questioning look melts into something more fond. 

“Alright, honey, go on ahead, but you’d better not bother her too much; she’s a busy woman, you know.” 

He lets his eyes widen innocently, lips parting in mock surprise, hand going over his heart. “Why, I would never…” And the nurse just chuckles and waves him on by. 

So. Easy. 

And the thing is, he  _ is _ bringing her lunch, so he didn’t even really lie. 

He slips the paper bag into her locker with her purse, leaving a little note with a red heart on it, and then makes his way to Peter’s room, watching as one of the nurses leaves with the dirty sheets and dishes, and then slips quietly inside. 

As soon as Peter hears the door close, he’s up and on his feet, holding out an impatient hand for Stiles’ bag. 

Stiles raises a brow but hands it over without protest, watching curiously as the older man makes his way into the bathroom to change. 

He’s quiet for a minute before asking Peter curiously,

“How long did it take you to build your muscles back up?”

He’s met with silence, and scowls at Peter as he comes out, now dressed in the clothes Stiles had brought for him, fiddling with the baseball cap in his hands. Peter arches a brow, and Stiles shrugs in a “what can you do?” manner.  He’s a curious person. He’s not going to apologize for it, and if Peter hadn’t wanted him to ask questions, he shouldn’t have asked for his help in the first place. Really, he brought it onto himself. 

“You’re an impatient thing, aren’t you?” Peter shakes his head. “About three months.”

“When did you wake up?”

Peter eyed him warily before saying, “A little under four months ago.” 

“Why are you still pretending to be comatose? Is it so you won’t get caught? I’ll bet it’s because you think hunters would come after you if they knew you were awake. How long would you have pretended-” 

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Stop talking, please. I believe it is my turn to ask something, assuming you’ll stop running your mouth long enough for me to do so.” 

Stiles glares  but grumbles his assent. 

“Where, exactly, have you decided I am going to stay?”

Stiles pauses at this, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Yeah, so...about that…”

Peter pins him with a narrowed eyed, steely glare so Stiles hastily continues. 

“Okay, so, you’re maybe going to be staying in the, um, attic at the McCall house? I mean, obviously I stay with them and until we can get your- identity issues in order, you can’t really rent out a hotel room or anything, otherwise when you’re inevitably found missing, they’d be able to track you down, whether you used a card or not. You’re, um, also not exactly inconspicuous, you know? Don’t worry, though! You won’t get caught. They literally never go in their attic. Scott didn’t even know they  _ had _ an attic. That’s how much they don’t use it.” 

Peter stares at him for another moment before sighing and nodding. “I suppose that will be acceptable, if and only if there is a window.” 

Stiles is already nodding. “Cool, yes, awesome, there is definitely a window and it even opens and everything.” 

“Wonderful. Now go,” Peter plops his hat on and pulls it low over his face. “Go cause your distraction. I’m sure I can follow your stench back to your home.” He smiles, more a flash of teeth than anything, and motions him on. 

Stiles huffs indignantly (he showered this morning, he does  _ not  _ stink) before flashing a sloppy salute. “Sir yes sir!” And with that, he takes off out the door and down the hallway. 

Admittedly, taking a pill that’s going to make him puke his guts out isn’t his best plan, but he’s working on a time frame, and considering he already had the pills from a prank he helped Scott pulled at school so he could ditch with Allison...well, he’s just working with what he’s got, like any smart person would. 

Which is how he ends up puking all over the emergency room floor, which ends up prompting a chain reaction from people already there, which is absolutely disgusting  and he kind of wants to die and is maybe regretting all his life decisions. But, it works. They have to call the cleanup crew to come in to clean and disinfect  _ everything _ so no germs remain, the nurses have to check on all the patients- including himself- to make sure no one has anything contagious, and in the ensuing chaos, Peter is able to slip out unnoticed. 

Once Stiles is finally able to convince Melissa that no, he does not think he has caught a bug because he feels mostly fine now and yes, he does think he just ate something bad, she sends him home with the stern order of bed rest and lots of fluid. 

Scott is, of course, over at Allison’s and is probably doing things Stiles never, ever wants to hear about, which means Peter probably had exactly zero difficulties getting into the house. 

He’s still careful, so calls out Scott’s name as soon as he gets inside because one can never be too sure, but  is only met with the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen. 

Finding Peter in there, making himself an omelette that is quite possibly the size of his head is really not what he expected but is also not entirely unexpected- the man  _ did _ have to live off of hospital food for six years, and all the pudding in the world couldn’t make up for that.

What he  _ really  _ doesn’t expect, though, is Peter calling off-handedly over his shoulder, “Would you like one?” 

Stiles blinks dazedly at him for a moment, before saying, “Um, sure?”, positive that his voice bellies his confusion and voices the question he hasn’t asked. 

Peter simply shrugs and says, “You’re too skinny,” before getting back to cooking.

Which, rude. He’s perfectly proportioned thank you very much. 

Stiles squints his eyes for him, searching for some hidden meaning he surely must have missed but, unable to find one, shrugs and pulls his books out of his backpack and starts on his homework. 

They each do their respective work in surprisingly comfortable silence, only broken when Peter plops a plate down in front of him and settles into a chair next to him at the table. 

Stiles shoots him a vaguely questioning  look before diving into his food with gusto. 

He’s halfway through his meal, shovelling another huge bite into his mouth, when Peter asks abruptly,

“Did you have anymore dreams last night?”

Which promptly causes Stiles to nearly choke to death on his bite and then glare indignantly at Peter. So the man  _ was _ buttering him up. Stupid omelette. 

“As a matter of fact, I did not”

At this, Peter just hums noncommittally, and goes back to eating. 

Stiles watches him warily for a moment before asking, bite nearly falling out of his mouth and half chewed, “Did  _ you _ ?”

Peter makes a disgusted face but does eventually say, “Would it matter if I did?”

“Considering you asked me first, I’m going to go with yes.” 

Peter sighs, long suffering, as if to ask the world at large ‘why me?’, but Stiles just stares at him until he answers. 

“Yes, I did.” And then calmly goes back to eating his meal. 

“And….?”

Stiles arches a brow, makes an impatient “go on” gesture, but Peter just stares at him impassively before rather pointedly finishing off his bite, delicately patting at his mouth with his napkin, and then-

“And I do believe it is time for me to get settled into my new room.” And then he’s strolling off without even having the decency to wash his dishes first. 

Stiles grumbles curses after him, and does the dishes on his own so Melissa won’t have to come home to a dirty house, before heading off in the direction of the attic. 

It seems as though Peter had walked in and promptly walked back out, given the fact that he’s got the ladder down but is standing in the hallway glaring as Stiles rounds the corner from the stairs. 

“That place is absolutely disgusting.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, irritation starting to build. “It’s the  _ attic _ , Peter, what did you expect?”

“For you to have at least cleaned it up somewhat before I arrived. I may be a wolf but I’m certainly not going to live like  an animal.” 

“Trust me, I don’t think anyone would expect that from you.” 

Peter scowls. “Go on, clean it up. This place is filthy. Come get me when it’s done.” And with that, he starts off towards Stiles’ room, at least having the presence of mind to go somewhere he wouldn’t be caught if someone got home sooner than expected. Which does nothing to quell Stiles’ growing annoyance. 

He sputters indignantly and grabs Peters wrist as he’s passes so he can’t leave (though they both know if he wanted free, he would be). “First of all, this isn’t a hotel. I’m not your maid; if you want something done, do it yourself. Second of all, I was busy gathering other necessary supplies. Like, oh, I don’t know,  _ food _ ? Water? Clothes? I even managed to get your old laptop back so don’t pull this shit with me. Third, I broke you out of the hospital while  _ you  _ had plans to just sit there and wait for something better to fall into your lap.  If it hadn’t been for me, you’d still be sitting there pretending to be comatose and having people shove baby food in your mouth.  _ I’m  _ the one who’s been doing all the heavy lifting, don’t try to front with me. If you want it clean, clean it your goddamned self because that? Is not my job. You’re a grown ass adult- act like it.” 

And with his rant finished, he stomps off towards his room and slams his door before throwing himself face first onto his bed and groaning dramatically.

So, okay, maybe he was being a  _ tad  _ irrational, but come on, the man practically threw a tantrum over the attic. Which, admittedly, wasn’t exactly clean but it wasn’t  _ un _ -clean, either. Just...unused. 

Stiles was just stressed. That was all. Breaking someone out of the hospital and helping them plan a murder was stressful stuff, you know. 

Stiles stared up at his ceiling for a while, mind blank and blessedly quiet, before eventually making his way out of the bedroom. 

Peter was nowhere in sight, but the ladder was down and he saw light coming from above, so he sighed and climbed up. 

And there Peter was, quietly cleaning up the attic, surrounded by cleaning supplies. At first, Stiles thought the man was so immersed in his chore that he didn’t even know Stiles was there; at least, until Peter tossed him the windex. 

“If you’re going to be up here, you may as well be useful.” And then he went back to sweeping. 

Stiles stared at him for a long while but for once, didn’t argue. Just made his way to the window and started cleaning. 

Together, the pair of them got the attic looking nicer than it ever had and somehow, not a single argument broke out between them. 

They worked in silence, unhurried and calm, until the place resembled something liveable. 

As they surveyed their work, Peter’s fingers skated along his arm, an absent look on his face as he scent marked Stiles, the touch brief but comfortable. 

Stiles could understand, even if he was surprised that Peter would want to scent mark  _ him  _ (though, what with close proximity and lack of literally anyone else, he supposed it made sense). The man had been by himself for six years, without a pack, left alone to suffer. 

And maybe Stiles leaned into the touch, because the only person who really touched him anymore was Melissa, and even then it was only for a brief hug here or there. Scott wouldn’t touch him aside from a friendly punch to the shoulder, or a poke in the arm to wake him up in the mornings,  like he was still afraid Stiles might break (to be fair, after his dad had died, he probably would have throttled Scott if he’d tried anything else). 

Eventually the pair moved, Stiles going for Peter’s laptop while Peter dragged a chair over to the foldaway table and settled down into it. Stiles handed over the laptop, and then went over to drag the ladder back up into the attic and close the hatch so they wouldn’t be bothered when Scott got home. Melissa wouldn’t be home for another few hours, so they had plenty of time to themselves, which was exactly what they needed. 

They had work to do. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. NOT A CHAPTER UPDATE

Okay guys, I know not many are interested in this so far, and to be honest, I’m not the biggest fan of how it’s turning out thus far. Eventually, I do plan on getting it re-written to how I want it to be, and it does potentially have some major changes, specifically when it comes to the relationships between certain characters. 

This fic is not abandoned, but I do intend to get it all written before I take this version down and repost, so I do not know how long it will take. 

Thank you all and I hope I can get it to you soon! 


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